Written In Blood

by Lowe, Shelia

  “What about caller ID?” Zebediah asked, voicing the question Claudia was asking herself.

  “You heard Pete. I couldn’t ask him anything. He’s livid that Monica got involved.”

  Kelly shook the bottle of ketchup and squeezed a dab onto her plate. “The police can capture the number she called from, can’t they?” she asked, dipping a home fry into the red sauce and popping it into her mouth.

  The ketchup looked like blood and made Claudia feel sick. “I don’t know. At least she’s alive.”

  Chapter 19

  Zebediah forked a chunk of yellow squash into his mouth. “I’d like to know what caused the hysterics,” he said around it.

  “Maybe they had an accident and they’re stranded somewhere,” Claudia said with hope in her voice. “You know, you hear stories—someone drives off a mountain road and isn’t found for days.”

  “That would be the biggest irony,” Kelly said. “Seeing as that’s what happened to her mother.”

  Zebediah put his hand over hers and squeezed. “Claudia,” he said gently, “if it were an accident, she wouldn’t have any reason to hang up on Pete. You’d better either call the police or her father.”

  “I don’t have her father’s number,” Claudia said. “Someone in his position, it’s got to be unlisted.”

  “Joel could get it for you,” Kelly said.

  “Joel’s on his way to San Francisco.”

  “One of your PI clients, then?”

  Claudia glared at her, resisting to the idea of calling Dominic Giordano, although she knew her friends were right and he had to be told. She asked their waitress to pack her burger to-go. “I’m going to call someone who can really help.”

  Jacob Barash was an Israeli security specialist living in L.A. Barash consulted Claudia when his high-profile clients received letters from stalkers. Sometimes the letters held threats, but more often than not, they simply fell into the rabid fan category. Her analysis of their handwritings helped him to assess the potential danger to his clients.

  Barash answered her call to his cell phone and promised he would do his best to get Giordano’s number for her. She put up a carafe of coffee, but before it finished brewing, he was back with Dominic Giordano’s home telephone number.

  “How’d you do that so fast?” Claudia asked in amazement.

  He chuckled. “Claudia, if I told you that, I’d be out of business.”

  She copied the information he gave her onto the pad she kept by the phone. “Thanks, Jacob, I owe you one.”

  “No problem. I owe you plenty. In fact, I owe it to you to tell you that it’s probably not a good idea for you to get mixed up with this guy. I don’t know what your business is with him, but from what I hear, he’s involved with some pretty unsavory people.”

  “This is not a social call, Jacob. Believe me, I wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t important.”

  “Suit yourself, Claudia, but trust me, you should steer clear of him.”

  “I appreciate the concern. I’ll be careful.”

  Claudia hung up the phone and stared at the number she had written on her message pad, thinking about what Jacob had just told her. He was right; she did not want to get involved with Dominic Giordano. Nothing she had heard about him made her feel good.

  She thought of the news reports that linked him with organized crime, and she wondered again whether his rumored associates might have any bearing on the disappearances of Annabelle and Paige. That frightened her more than other scenarios she had considered.

  What kind of reception would she get from the girl’s father? She didn’t expect warm and fuzzy, but she hoped he would at least be happy to know his daughter was alive.

  She picked up the phone and dialed, got a maid with Spanish-accented English who informed her that Mr. Giordano was out and not expected to return until late in the evening.

  Claudia explained the urgent nature of her call and left a message for him to return her call as soon as possible.

  Suddenly ravenous, she opened the Styrofoam box she had brought home from Cowboys and dug into the burger. She hadn’t given any thought to food all day, so even the reconstituted rubber that had started out as melted Swiss was sheer bliss. The sheer pleasure of food hitting her stomach nearly made her moan.

  She was swallowing the last bite when the phone rang again.

  Private Caller.

  “Ms. Claudia Rose?” A man’s voice, slight accent, similar to the maid she had spoken to earlier. “Please stand by for Mr. Dominic Giordano.”

  There was a click, then hold music. Had the caller been anyone else, she would have immediately rung off. But for Annabelle’s sake, she waited. It was a full five minutes before she heard another click and a curt voice in her ear: “So, what’s the story?”

  “Mr. Giordano?”

  “You got something to tell me about my daughter? Or is there some other reason you’re interrupting my conference call?” He sounded like Tony Soprano.

  “I’ve been working privately with Annabelle at the Sorensen Academy for a few weeks,” Claudia said. “She’s also spent a weekend at my home, and made friends with my niece, who’s the same age.” She paused, giving him a chance to respond, but he said nothing, so she continued. “Your daughter telephoned my niece about an hour ago, extremely upset. She didn’t give her location, nor whether Mrs. Sorensen was with her, but I was sure you’d want to know she called. I haven’t told the police yet.”

  “Where do you live, Ms. Rose?”

  “Playa del Reina, why?”

  “Give Juan the address, and hold off on the police.” Another click; then the first man was back on the line, asking for directions. He said they were coming from the studios in Culver City—at this hour, a ten-minute drive.

  Giordano’s brusque manner had put her on the defensive, but Claudia was curious to meet Annabelle’s father. She gave Juan her address, then went to brush her hair and freshen her makeup.

  She changed from jeans into black linen slacks and a pullover sweater. Darkened her lashes, added a touch of blush, a spritz of perfume to heighten her confidence. It felt as though she were getting ready for an audience with a monarch. Given Giordano’s position at Sunmark Studios, she supposed, in a way, that’s what he was.

  When the doorbell rang, she felt ready to meet the man who, according to his daughter, had sexually harassed her nanny then dismissed her, the man suspected of inappropriate behavior with young girls on his movie set.

  A chauffeur in formal livery stood on the porch. Tall and broad across the chest, thick black hair slicked back, Hispanic.

  He introduced himself as “Mr. G’s driver.” When he reached up to lean against the doorjamb his hand touched the top of the door. He could have been a bouncer at some nightclub. Beneath his coat Claudia detected the slight bulge of a holster, which made her nervous. Bodyguard.

  “You should bring a jacket,” he suggested. “It’s kinda cool outside.”

  Over his shoulder she saw a long black limousine parked at the curb. “Why doesn’t he come up?” she asked.

  The chauffeur gave a slight after-you bow. “Mr. Giordano would prefer it if you would come out to the car, miss.” He didn’t say it, but the implication wasn’t lost on her: What Mr. Giordano wants, Mr. Giordano gets.

  Making her go to him gave Giordano the upper hand and a chance to check her out as she came down the stairs.

  It wasn’t the chauffeur’s fault that his boss was a control freak. Claudia grabbed the jacket she’d tossed over the back of a chair on returning home from Cowboys.

  “Don’t worry, Juan,” she said, closing the door behind her. “I’ll behave myself.”

  He gave her a grin, letting her know he got it.

  Juan opened the limo’s back door and Claudia leaned inside. The man reclining against the plush leather seats beckoned her to join him, reinforcing the perception of royalty.

  Even seated he looked tall, rangy. Unusual for a man of Italian descent. Long, slender l
egs encased in fabric that clung as if it had been sewn on him. He wore a fine camel blazer and black turtleneck with Mark Nason loafers. His skin looked as though it had seen too many hours in the tanning booth and he had a shock of fastidiously groomed salt-and-pepper hair, mostly gray on the sides with a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache. Eyes with too few smile lines at the corners.

  “Dominic Giordano,” he said, offering a less-than-enthusiastic handshake.

  Not very impressive for a man of his stature, Claudia decided. It left her feeling awkward about her own firm grip. She climbed in and settled next to him.

  “Why are we here, Mr. Giordano?”

  He appraised her with a bold once-over. “I wanted to get a look at you.”

  “Okay, you’ve looked. Now what?”

  His lips stretched into a smile. “Spunk. I like that in a woman. So tell me what you know about my daughter’s latest stunt.”

  It wasn’t as though she had formed a picture of him as a doting daddy, but his words and his tone grated. No wonder Annabelle had problems.

  Claudia summarized her last meeting with his daughter for him, her subsequent conversation with Paige, and ended on a rerun of Pete’s latest news.

  Giordano’s face remained impassive as she spoke, but the manicured fingers tapping on his knee made her wonder.

  When she fell silent, he said, “You’ve been conned, Ms. Rose. You haven’t known my daughter long enough to learn her tricks. She’s got a real talent for manipulating the system.”

  “Oh, I thought that was you,” Claudia retorted, then wished she had bitten her tongue. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she said stiffly. “I don’t know you.”

  Giordano stared straight ahead so she couldn’t see his expression, but his lips were pursed and his tone was icy. “That’s right, you don’t, so keep your smart-ass opinions to yourself.”

  “Fine. What I care is about Annabelle’s safety and Paige’s, too. Why did you ask me not to call the police? Don’t you think something needs to be done about this?”

  He gave her a bored look. “You don’t think I have my own people working on it?”

  I should have guessed, she thought as the penny dropped. No wonder Jacob had been so speedy getting back to her. People like Dominic Giordano retained people like Jacob Barash as their own private police force. She wondered whether Jacob had laughed to himself as he recited Giordano’s phone number to her.

  Giordano smiled unexpectedly, showing what might pass for appeal if you were looking for a job in the movies and the casting couch was the only way to go.

  “Claudia,” he said, leaning toward her in a way that put him too far into her space. “Okay if I call you Claudia? Look, honey, I want to find her as much as you do—more. She’s my kid, right? You and me, we’re not enemies. We gotta work together on this. For Annabelle’s sake, okay?”

  His words impressed her as hollow. She was getting a strong vibe that his concern had more to do with avoiding negative publicity than Annabelle’s welfare. She inched away from him on the seat until the armrest pressed into her back. “You think Annabelle’s to blame for whatever’s happened, don’t you?”

  He brushed a piece of invisible lint from his jacket. “You know her history, am I right? I figure any minute, there’s gonna be a ransom note or a phone call. It’s a scam. Those hoodlums she hangs with—they’re in it with her. I guarantee it.”

  “You seriously believe she had Paige kidnapped?”

  He frowned at her like she was a dull child who needed something simple explained. “You figure it out.”

  “If it were true, why wait so long to make a demand? And why would she call my niece in hysterics?”

  “Fuck if I know, but this whole thing has Annabelle written all over it.”

  Claudia didn’t want to believe him, but he was right about one thing—she had known his daughter for only a short time, and Annabelle’s record was not exactly unblemished. Yet what she did know—and what she had seen in the girl’s handwriting—made it hard for her to believe what he was suggesting.

  Still, under her skin, it just didn’t feel right.

  She reached for the door handle. “Good night, Mr. Giordano.”

  Chapter 20

  By the time Friday rolled around Claudia’s eyes felt as if she’d rubbed grit into them. A couple of nights as she lay awake she considered sleeping pills, rejecting that option in case Annabelle called her and she wasn’t able to wake up. Each time she thought that, a hateful little voice in her head would whisper not a chance, which kept her awake longer.

  The Tuesday-evening conversation she’d had in Dominic Giordano’s limo kept coming back to her. Giordano seemed so certain of Annabelle’s involvement in whatever had happened to Paige. How could a father be so callous?

  Or was he simply being realistic?

  The rain started up again, painting a dank, colorless world outside her windows. The ocean was an unrelenting gray blanket. Even the tomato plants in the container garden on the porch had succumbed to so much moisture. Examining her puffy eyes in the bathroom mirror, Claudia felt as waterlogged as the poor vegetables; she couldn’t stop crying. Something about Annabelle had touched her to her core and wouldn’t let go.

  Sitting in the house thinking about it was making her crazy. She grabbed her keys and hurried down to the garage.

  The police had left the Sorensen Academy and with them went the media. Claudia parked on the street and walked up the driveway. Since the students had gone home for the holidays, she wasn’t sure anyone would be on site to let her in, but a maid she recognized opened the massive front door to her knock. Behind the maid, a radio played salsa music at ear-splitting volume.

  “Nobody here but Senor Neil,” the maid said, raising her voice over the carnival beat as she ushered Claudia in from the rain. “Senor Bert, he go to gambling.” She carried a wet mop and there was a bucket on the parquet floor, with white industrial towels laid out, making a path to the sweeping staircase.

  Waste of time in this weather, Claudia thought, stepping inside and wiping her high-heeled boots on the mat.

  With its lights off and dried pine needles littering the floor, the expired Christmas tree looked as sad as Claudia felt. The gifts that had been intended for the children at the homeless shelter were still piled around its base. Paige and Annabelle had gone missing before Christmas Day dawned, so the delivery never took place.

  The maid saw her looking at the packages, the gift-wrapped baby doll that Claudia herself had dropped off on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, the last time she had been here. The last time anyone had seen Annabelle.

  “Still waiting hear from Senora Paige,” the maid said, her pleasant face lined with worry. “I no think she comin’ back.”

  “Don’t say that!” Claudia exclaimed, not wanting to acknowledge that even this woman, whose livelihood depended on her employment at the Sorensen Academy had already given up hope.

  The maid nodded, taking in her swollen eyes, and patted her arm. “Is okay. Be okay.” She indicated the presents. “Senor Dane and Senora Diana, they come today to take to shelter.”

  “That’s good,” Claudia said, glad that the children would still receive the gifts, even though she resented the Sorensen twins horning in on Paige’s generosity. “I’m going up to Annabelle’s room,” she said. “I won’t be long.”

  “Sure, sure, Senora. You go this way.” The maid pointed her mop at the towels, then turned away and resumed swabbing the floor to the Latin beat.

  Claudia mounted the elegant staircase pursuing the nagging sensation that had urged her to drive across town on this soggy afternoon. A vibe that if she could just sit in Annabelle’s room for a few minutes she would be able to feel what the girl had been feeling before she disappeared, that she might be able to make some sense of what had happened. She knew she wouldn’t have any peace until she tried.

  The stairs to the third floor were located at the opposite end of the second floor landing. Upstairs, th
e sound of the radio was muted by plush carpeting. She felt very alone in the shadowy hallway.

  The maid had said the Sorensen twins were coming to pick up the toys. With Bert out of town and not there to stand up for her, as he had the last time she faced off with Dane Sorensen, Claudia would do her best to avoid crossing their path.

  Nearing Paige’s office, she slowed her steps, startled by the aroma of cannabis.

  Annabelle?

  The ropy weed scent wafting into the hallway was a big fuck you to the yellow crime-scene tape that clung in curling plastic ribbons to one side of the lintel. Claudia hesitated, her hand on the doorknob, listening.

  Only the distant sound of Tito Puente playing a mambo in the downstairs lobby reached her ears. Nothing from inside Paige’s office, just the slight stream of smoke curling under the door. Her heart was thumping double time as she turned the handle and pushed open the door.

  For an instant she thought it was a ghost standing at the window. But a ghost would have been transparent. Neil Sorensen’s body was as substantial as her own. The unlighted room, the rain clouds in the sky outside, and the gray sweatshirt and pants he wore created the wraith-like effect.

  His wheelchair stood empty across the room.

  “Hello, Claudia,” he said, turning toward her, a piece of folded black satin pressed to his cheek. His long face was pallid, the almost bloodless lips stretched into a sardonic smile. “I’m not psychic; I saw your reflection in the glass.”

  “You can walk,” Claudia said, feeling stupid at the shock of seeing him on his feet. As she came farther into the room, she could see that he was leaning on a cane.

  “Been working at it for months,” he said. “I wanted Paige to see me the way I was when we first met.”

  “Wanted?” Past tense, as if he didn’t expect to show Paige the results of his efforts.

  The joint Claudia smelled in the hallway lay atop the soil in a Chinese evergreen plant. Neil picked it up and took a toke, then lowered himself to the sofa, unfolding the lace-trimmed chemise in his hand and smoothing it across his knees. There was something spooky about the way he stroked it as if it were a living thing.